December Twenty-Second
by Ms.Brightside SH
Summary: Arthur is sick and Eames insists on taking care of him.


_AN: So, I'm spending Christmas Eve with Sophie ( .com) and we wrote this while baking._

_Life doesn't get much better ;)_

_Part twenty two of my advent calendar._

It's two days before Christmas Eve and instead of preparing for the holiday, Arthur is sick, really sick. He has tried denying it, acting as if it was nothing more than a runny nose and a sore throat. But now he is lying on his couch, feelings as if he's about to die a horrible death.

He's too tired to go out and get himself any medicine, hell, he can't even be bothered to go into the kitchen to drink some water and his headache is starting to become unbearable.

There's a shrill ringing sound that rips him out of his state of being half asleep and he sits up, only to look around in confusion for a few seconds. It's his work phone. He grabs it from the coffee table and blindly swipes his thumb over the screen to answer the call.

"What?" he snaps, expecting it to be Cobb because he's one of the very few people who are in possession of this number.

"You're ever so friendly, my dear Arthur."

Arthur groans and falls back on the couch.

"Mr. Eames, what do you want?" he asks hoarsely before erupting into a coughing fit.

The man at the other end of the line laughs quietly.

"I actually wanted to offer you a job, but you don't sound like you should be doing anything except drinking tea."

"A job, right before Christmas Eve? And what the fuck do you mean by 'except drinking tea'? I'm fine."

"Arthur, your case would be a lot more convincing if you didn't sound like a dying elephant."

Arthur rolls his eyes.

"What the fuck, that didn't even make any sense, Eames."

"Are you always this rude when you're sick?"

Eames' tone of voice indicates nothing but polite interest.

"I'm not fucking rude, and, more importantly, not fucking sick. I'm just not interested in working tonight." Arthur stops for a second, considering that Eames might be right about his swearing, but what the hell, it's Eames, he doesn't deserve any better, especially not when Arthur's head feels like it might explode any minute.

"Alright, I'll stop bothering you with the job. Just promise me you'll go to bed and sleep it off, ok?"

Eames actually sounds concerned, and Arthur is more pissed off by that than by anything.

He hangs up on Eames without another word and drops his head onto a cushion.

About two hours later, Arthur wakes from his fitful sleep because there's someone trying to break into his apartment.

He has weapons hidden basically everywhere, at least three handguns and an army knife within reach. He decides for the semi-automatic pistol behind one of the couch cushions, grabs it and unlocks the safety in a swift motion, the movements memorized even in his current state.

He gets up, trying to steady himself. Arthur has to wait a few seconds for the room to stop spinning, before entering the hallway on light feet. He keeps the gun pointed at the ground, eyeing the door suspiciously. Arthur presses his back against the wall next to the doorframe and hesitates for a moment, considering his options.

The lock clicks and knowing he has to decide fast, he grabs for the door handle and pulls the door open. Arthur steps forward and presses the muzzle of the gun against the temple of the person kneeling on the ground. Eames lifts his head and looks at Arthur with a crooked smile on his face, the lock pick still in his hand.

Arthur takes a step back, but doesn't even think about lowering his gun.

"What the fuck, Eames? Why don't you ring the fucking doorbell like a normal person?"

"Would you have let me in?" Eames asks, pushing the gun aside with ease.

Arthur actually stumbles, like some swooning Victorian maiden, which only serves to further fuel his anger.

Eames quickly rises from the ground, grabbing for Arthur's wrist, just as his shoulder connects with the wall. He takes the gun from his hand and clicks the safety on, before pocketing the weapon.

Eames grabs Arthur around the waist and then just throws him over his shoulder like he weighs nothing at all.

"Let me down, you jerk!"

Eames just laughs and walks down the hall, opening one door, only to find Arthur's study.

"Wrong room," he mutters to himself while Arthur hangs down over his back like a sandbag.

"Second door on the left," Arthur rasps, defeated.

"Thank you, darling."

Eames throws him down on the bed and Arthur grunts.

"Careful, dick!"

Eames doesn't even react to the insult.

"Don't you move!" he calls over his shoulder, then leaves the room.

Arthur hears the front door closing and after that, Eames rummaging around in the kitchen.

He'd love to defy Eames, but he physically can't move his limbs. Everything hurts and he feels dizzy.

Arthur dozes off for what can't be longer than a few minutes.

When he opens his eyes, Eames is standing next to the bed holding up a steaming mug in one hand and a blister pack in the other.

"What are you gonna do now? Poison me?" His voice is hoarse and he erupts into a coughing fit after speaking.

"You seem really hostile today," Eames comments before setting the mug down on the nightstand and popping two tablets out of the blister pack. "Take those," he orders and Arthur, too exhausted to fight the other man anymore, obediently swallows the tablets and reaches for the cup. He takes a sip of the hot liquid and coughs.

"No seriously, are you trying to poison me?"

"That's rum, darling. Works wonders with the Paracetamol. Trust me."

Arthur doesn't trust him, but takes another sip of the laced tea nonetheless, then glares at Eames.

"Will you leave now?"

"Not until I'm sure you're going to sleep."

He pulls the covers back.

"Come on, lie down properly."

Arthur grumbles but complies. Eames tucks him in and sits down on the edge of the bed.

Arthur wants to protest, but the words won't come to him. He can feel his eyelids dropping.

"That's right, "Eames whispers. "Do you want me to leave now?"

Somewhere in his mind, Arthur knows that this is a bad idea, but it's cozy and warm and he feels much too sleepy to think.

"No, stay."

There's a pause, then he feels the dry, soft pressure of Eames' lips on his forehead.

"Of course, Darling."


End file.
